


Guidance

by treveleyann



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:13:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treveleyann/pseuds/treveleyann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>crossposted from tumblr</p>
    </blockquote>





	Guidance

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from tumblr

He was disgusted with himself. Words still ringing in his ear from the judgment and subsequent outcries from the mages at his decision.

How many times had he tried to stop the Knight-Commander from agreeing to make an apprentice Tranquil because they hadn’t gotten strong enough in time - “some of us just only get the hang of it late. Give them more time.” - and how many times had Arthur felt pity for the Tranquil around him? He respected them, and admired their focus, but there was an aura of uneasiness about them that made him and the other mages feel uncomfortable around them. _The Tranquil_ , he told himself as he walked through Skyhold’s cloisters, _were reminders of what we could have been if we weren’t strong enough or the Chantry didn’t like us_.

Arthur hesitated outside of the doors of the chapel that had been set up in one of the rooms off-shooting the cloistered garden, He had never gone into a Chantry before of his own accord. When speaking with the Grand Cleric of Ostwick City or the Revered Mother of the Ostwick Circle yes, or in Haven for the Inquisition, but never for…spiritual guidance. He hoped at least, since the hour was late, Mother Giselle would not be around. She might have gotten the wrong idea.

Quietly, he pushed the door open to the Chantry, almost relieved to find it empty. Maybe he could at least voice his feelings out loud, in some foolish attempt that if there was some kind of Maker, that they might hear me. Religion has always helped Charles, he thought, maybe for once it might help me. There was a box of unlit candles near the door - it was tradition, Arthur knew, for an Andrastian to light one when they were in a chapel if they needed some guidance from the Maker. He picked one up and carried it over to the small, makeshift shrine at the feet of the statue of Andraste, his footsteps echoing in the barren chapel. Instead of using his magic for once, he bent down on both knees to dip the wick of the candle into the flame of another nearby, and carefully set it down.

Arthur was never sure how to pray - even before his magic had manifested, his tutors had been fairly loose Andrastians and did not force him to find comfort in religion if he did not want to. And Arthur never did, because the Chant of Light was not interesting to a young boy who was more interested in medical history. But from memory, from those he had seen in Ostwick’s chantry or the chapel in the Teyrn’s keep, most people clasped their hands as if in forgiveness from the Maker. He tried with the tight fennec hide gloves still on his hands, but the Anchor was throbbing more than usual.

Instead, he peeled them off and set them down beside him.

“Maker…it’s me,” Arthur started off, feeling awkward talking to nothing physical, but for this, he tried to imagine something spiritual was there, “I know we’ve never talked before. I don’t sing the Chant, I deny being your Lady’s Herald all the time and I take your name in vain so often. But.. I can’t forgive myself for something I’ve done. I swore to protect the mages when I conscripted them, that it would be better in the Circles. That I wouldn’t use the Rite of Tranquility. Why would I? I’m terrified of it. I saw reflections of Tranquil mages when in the Fade. I have nightmares about it. And yet…” he hesitated. Took a moment to steal himself so that he could actually say it, “and yet I condemned another mage to a fate worse than death for his crimes at Adamant. How can I be someone that the mages can trust when I go back on my word?”

He fell silent. It wasn’t praying, he knew that. Praying always seemed to be about reciting the Chant of Light, and that was a considerable gap in his knowledge for a First Enchanter. Unclasping his hand, he took his gloves and slid them back on. Arthur stood up, wincing as he felt the pain twinge in his knee, and glanced down at the newly lit candle. His first candle, and perhaps the only one he would light in the Chantry as recognition of an old tradition. 

And as quietly as he entered the Chantry, the Inquisitor slipped out and back to his quarters to finish the ever growing pile of paperwork.

He might not have believed no one would hear his words, but he found a scrap of paper tucked inside a book he had requested, in Mother Giselle’s neat script. _The Maker forgives you._


End file.
